


after the larceny of you

by Niedergeschlagen



Category: The Goldfinch (2019), The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: (Theo's canonical overdose), Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drug Abuse, I promise this is quite happy actually, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide attempt, It’s about the Intricate Rituals, M/M, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, he loves Theo so much you guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:14:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22119988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niedergeschlagen/pseuds/Niedergeschlagen
Summary: Knowing he is a prison doesn’t make Boris’s loving of Theo any easier, but he is selfish. He’s the most selfish person he has known – stealing the bird, keeping Theo, taking things; he steals anything that isn’t bolted down, and even that sometimes doesn’t stop him, because Theo is often worlds away, glued to some memory or another, and Boris still takes him (by the hand, dragging him out to the vast night, baptising him in chlorine and vomit and liqueur, shoving pills and tabs in his mouth, holding onto him, in the middle of the abandoned road, Via Dolorosa, or in Theo’s bed with the gay little dog making a home between their bare, dirty feet).Or, Boris is a thief, who knows well enough to hate himself, but his cosmic, eternal, ardent love makes it okay.
Relationships: Theodore Decker/Boris Pavlikovsky
Comments: 16
Kudos: 118





	after the larceny of you

It’s intricate, being with Theo. Difficult, even, to the point of exhaustion and frustration. Theo, much like the little bird in his secret, stolen painting, wants to fly away. He is made of contradiction. Theo is an oxymoron with his flighty, cagey, stuck, secretive, faraway, scared, brave heart. He is wild in the way Boris can only dream of being, because as broken as Boris is, Theo is self-destructive. There is mania in Theo that Boris can’t reach, a spark of something that screams ONE MORE STRAW AND I KILL MYSELF that he can’t kindle in himself. He’s always been fucked up, he was born into it, inherited it. Boris is the heir of fuck-ups, whereas brokenness was thrusted upon Theo late in life. Too late to make it into a career, but just in time to whittle away all remaining humanity. He’s a dark thing now, just like Boris. Maybe even more so.

But — Boris doesn’t understand how — he is light as well. When he laughs, he glints with the gold of the bird’s chain. He’s bound, yes, and yes, he is dying in many ways. But he manages to glow in a way that makes Boris drink sleep and thoughts and whispers and shattered hopes from his lips, when they’re high and drunk out of their minds. He kisses, and he kisses, and he kisses, and he kisses. And Theo lets him, like he knows he’s an oasis in a dark desert, like he knows the stars and the moon reflect on his skin, making his water all the more delectable – and Boris is so parched.

He doesn’t know why Theo lets him. He wouldn’t let himself. Maybe Theo is making amends, or maybe, Theo knows Boris is on death row, and is feeding him his last meal. Or maybe, or maybe, or maybe.

Knowing he is a prison doesn’t make Boris’s loving of Theo any easier, but he is selfish. He’s the most selfish person he has known – stealing the bird, keeping Theo, taking things; he steals anything that isn’t bolted down, and sometimes even that doesn’t stop him, because Theo is often worlds away, glued to some memory or another, and Boris still takes him ( _by the hand, dragging him out to the vast night, baptising him in chlorine and vomit and liqueur, shoving pills and tabs in his mouth, holding onto him, in the middle of the abandoned road, Via Dolorosa, or in Theo’s bed with the gay little dog making a home between their bare, dirty feet)._ Boris is a thief, but he is beautiful. He is beautiful in the sly, slight, criminal way. In a dreamworld, a different planting pot, he could’ve blossomed into some pretty little thing. A rush of bluebells or columbines or morning glories, rather than the weed he is now. He is beautiful, because he’s scrappy; he is bright, because of the acid he drops, and because of the intoxicated gleam in his eye. The gleam that says, ‘Take advantage of me, see if I care’. But it’s paramount to him. His vampire skin and oily black eyes, his lotus-eater body, and his morphine-clogged brain gild him like perverted iconography. Boris is beautiful because he is sullied.

But things change after Theo leaves, even takes the shitty dog that Boris loves so much he almost regurgitates at the thought. He grows up sinewy, but always laughing, because sometimes, when he’s shooting up, he remembers the way Theo laughed and how his laughter glimmered in the blistering sunlight. Sometimes, and it’s a low for him, Boris even thinks about Popchyk and how his little paws used to pitter-patter against the floor.

( _Boris the beautiful. Boris the thief. Boris the boss. But never Boris the moon._ )

He laughs and jokes and is jovial almost as much as he hates himself. He despises no one quite like himself, even more when he selfishly thinks he should never have let Theo fly away. Should have gone with him. Should have ruined him all the same.

Maybe they wouldn’t have ruined each other. Boris entertains that thought, occasionally. Usually when he’s sufficiently drugged up and yearning for Theo, which, as the years go by, happens a little less than it used to before. He’s grateful for small miracles, he supposes, until the cadence of Theo’s voice begins to fade from his memory. The sound of it, he has forgotten years ago, but not the ways it would quirk up around certain words, and not how he sometimes slipped into monotony. When the ups and downs of Theo’s words begin disappearing, he panics, holding onto twisted, washed-out memories of a young boy, feeling disgusting for not having Theo the Man to think of – only the Boy. 

And then, Theo is there. The Man. The cadence of his voice hasn’t changed, but the timbre of it is darker, and his voice is lower, and Boris yearns for him even more. Stupid, ridiculous suggestions slip from his lips. His too-white, too-bright, too-perfect teeth clack together when he bites down on his tongue to stop himself from confessing the truth that has been sitting around in his mouth for years now, which is, of course, I love you.

The days blur in a discomfiting way, until the moment Boris is pulling Theo back from the dead like a slightly more successful Orpheus. His hands are cradling Theo’s face. He plants his feet firmly to the snowy ground and walks Theo back and forth, for too long, in the cold, forcing him to live. He’s selfish, he knows, stealing Theo from Death.

Death, who must have been waiting for Theo for his entire life now. But Boris wants him more, for himself, even for a little while. So, he makes it okay.

Almost a year afterwards, Theo takes him to the countryside in Upstate New York, and they’re sober enough that it stings. They sit on the back porch, under the moonlight, and Theo presses his forehead against Boris’s. He kisses Boris, and he kisses him, and he kisses him, and he kisses him, and he kisses him, and he –

And though he’s breathless, aching, and aflame with desire and love, it’s all right. Boris returns what he’s stolen ( _and maybe it was always his to keep, anyway._ )

**Author's Note:**

> Donna Tartt, buy my silence for $8000 a month.


End file.
